Psychosis

a room that smells
like a hospital. Like a crack in the clock.
Wish-you-were-

sterile.

Unmistakable, in the humming dark corners.
a black brain claw with rotting thoughts
in its grip. Sharp coal-charred grip
a different Hand-- each mind finds its own
version of obvious folly
always vengeful, twisting fingers in the slimy, gray peel:
occipital temporal always grasping never giving

it remains-

ever true to the sleeper and false
to us. I close the door.

The crazy-knuckles crunch
(as real as electric locks)
because yesterday, they crunched. I felt
the popped frail thoughts
and shattered rigid dreams, fading fragments litter my pillow.
Waking spells strangled relentless clenching
crush.

Please.

The slow tight roar, squeezing visions, until
the world is a flying powdery dust.
Let me at least rebuild the hallway!

Where is it?

Mop the floor, try again tomorrow.